Valannor

The entirety of the Machine Spirit section was copied from the old lore with like... One or two redline alterations? The team working on this didn't think it needed changed at all given it's been relatively fine in usage thus far. I'll put it on the list to go in and tweak the interactions for voidal machine spirits, however. It's actually a good catch and something better to fix before anything could get out of hand. Much obliged, chief.

Animatii; The Clockwork Craft “‘Lo, and behold! This roiling heart of gears, Churning e’ermore, seldom respite from these terrible nightmares! Glimpse this truth and lay bare thy fears, Am I human? Am I machine? I think that GOD no longer cares…” - The Clockmaker’s Woe, 1787 F.A, discovered in a man’s workshop after he hung himself before a depiction of a Gear Heart. Strangely, his family is still known to receive mail signed with his signature to this day. The product of generations of Artificers toiling away in secretive workshops and artisanal guilds, it is said that the origin of the clockwork craft was in fact the gift of the Machine God, bestowed by the hand of his Reevers to a human clockmaker in elder days long ago; bequeathing unto him the capacity and knowledge of the Machine God’s own crafts. Alchemical and non-magickal in nature, these men of steel were soon dubbed ‘Automatons,’ and thus the craft of Animatii came to the hands of the modern Descendants. Rumors still linger of the Machine God's meddlings having led to the birth of such a practice - but scattered and few are they, and so ludicrous that surely they can't possibly be true… Index: Animati - the art of crafting automatons. Animii - automatons/clockwork constructs. Animii Crafter - one who makes automatons. Explanation Animii, or more commonly, automatons, are constructs made of clockwork and alchemical machinery. This art is not one of arcane nor magical origins, but entirely mundane, necessitating only an understanding of the material alphabet and basic mechanics. Those capable of forging these constructs are known as automaton crafters and may be of any profession, from humble clockmakers to wisened alchemists. While the clockwork itself might not be complex in concept, the alchemical requisites for a functioning automaton necessitate that one be taught by another automaton crafter. Even should one manage to be taught the basics, the art of the automaton crafter demands a special attention to detail, a skill honed over many years of study. - Animati is an advanced alchemical feat. One may begin to learn advanced alchemical feats once they have reached T3 in basic alchemy. - Animati may be learned under one with a valid TA in Animati. - Animati requires an accepted FA to perform. Knowing the recipe is not enough; the alchemist must be taught the creation of automatons as well. - Animii are grouped into five tiers for simplicity sake and to group together redlines. Once an alchemist begins learning automaton crafting, they must take time and effort to refine their craft. Imperfection and failure will be commonplace among budding craftsmen, and even experts in the art will struggle with slight blemishes in their work. Still, the goal of perfection always looms overhead. The Making of Automata The culmination of mortal engineering, automatons are clockwork constructs made by an automaton crafter. They are versatile creations, and may come in many shapes and sizes, limited only by the whim and imagination of their creator. The universal trait of automatons is that they are made solely from inorganic or dead organic material bound together by clockwork, though this does not mean that every inorganic material is prime for making such things, as one must be careful to not pick a metal too heavy or too soft. Commonly, steel and bronze are favored by automaton crafters for their durability and strength, with bronze being preferred for cogs and clockwork within the automaton itself. It would certainly be inadvisable to make an automaton out of a stuffed doll, for instance, without a proper skeleton of a harder material beneath the surface. The chief component of Animii, which engenders their sapience and allows their function, is dubbed ‘Lifeblood’ - a synthetic vitae which acts as blood for the automaton, and which powers their bodies and the various modules which give them intelligence, sight, etc. It is a green-ish fluid, though it may be dyed to other colors, with the consistency of a thin oil - easily staining clothes and work aprons or gloves. Unlike one’s normal blood, it cannot clot on its own, proving to be a vital weakness of all automatons if drained wholly or in large enough quantities. All Animatii require Lifeblood to function. Lifeblood’s recipe is as follows, which produces enough to reliably craft a single humanoid Automaton; Animii themselves are further broken down into five tiers based on their complexities. - Firstly, there is the base level of Animii which encompasses things such as prosthetic arms, eyes, lungs, or various other prosthetics which do not involve life-sustaining organs. These may be fitted to a patient and can not be expected to work on their own or have sentience. Such prosthetics completely rely on the recipient and are not to be mistaken for an upgrade of one’s natural limb as they are fundamentally worse than the flesh one is born with. Also within this tier are non-sentient inventions about the size of a prosthetic arm or smaller, such as a wrench that folds back into a different tool. - The second tier is used to group creatures smaller than or around the size of backpacks or smaller, such as birds or cats. These include not only animals but all small creations which contain sentience, such as an Animii backpack with an arm for grabbing things. Animii of the second tier can be expected to perform simple tasks but prove useless in combat. - Next, there is the third tier of Animii which is expressed as creatures bigger than a backpack but are capped at the size of a grown golden retriever. These Animii can only be pets and cannot be used to augment one’s own body in any way - this is to say that no mobile prosthetic or invention will be allowed to exist in this category as they simply weigh too much to be effective. These creatures may be used in combat to varying degrees of effectiveness but will bleed out after five emotes as they have no ways to stop their lifeblood from leaking from their wounds. - The fourth tier of Animii is used to describe non-combative non-player characters greater than the size of the third tier though no longer than a humanoid, such as an Automaton butler that wanders one’s estate giving wine glasses to those attending a party. These cannot be used to relay any sort of information that the creature themselves does not know, and abide by normal CRP mount & pet rules. Automaton mounts to the size of a horse are likewise included in this tier, and follow all rules on mounts. - The fifth and final tier of Animii is limited entirely to Animii which are played by players. There are two versions of this - one where an Animii is made without a soul and then is played via a player with an accepted CA, and another where a soul enters the vessel upon death and is able to be played with a valid CA. More information about this Automaton CA is listed below in a separate section. Creations that do not fit within the five groupings above cannot be made or played without an appropriate MArt, likewise for those which bend or alter the rules of standard Animatii. If one cannot determine what grouping an Animii should fit in or if one is appropriate to make, the lore team should be consulted beforehand. Exo-skeletons/Iron Man suits/Power Armor are strictly forbidden and may not be crafted. [CA] Automatons T5 Automatons There have been tales of walking effigies of clockwork and steel, powered by fine-tuned gears and infused with an alchemic lifeblood. These, the fifth-tier of Animati, are the ultimate achievement of the clockmaker’s craft, made in the distinct image of mankind to either serve the task their maker has endowed – or to seek a purpose of their own. Automatons are made from non-living and inorganic materials, most often steel or a combination of various metallurgies. To create one, a sturdy skeleton must be made to ensure it does not crumble from its own weight, the material of which must be stronger than the exterior plating. This frame will always retain a humanoid resemblance, meaning that it will generally stand upright and have limbs and appendages befitting the average descendant. Various aesthetics are possible, such as granting it a head in the shape of a bird or beast, or adding steel spines along its back, but the construct must always be upright and bipedal. Once the skeleton is made, the automaton must be filled with the various tubing and clockwork necessary to power it, with the most important of all being the Gear Heart. These tubes flow from the Heart much alike to the arteries and veins of a living man, powering the construct with an alchemic lifeblood pumped by the Gear Heart, which acts as the source of automation within the construct. The Heart is incredibly fragile and, if exposed, needs only a one or two heavy hits to be effectively destroyed and its contents spilled out, thus rendering the automaton inert. Likewise, just as a human may perish from losing too much of their own blood, an automaton may perish if too much of their own lifeblood is lost. Once the Gear Heart and its vessels have been made, the clockmaker must then move onto the sensory components, such as the visual, auditory, and voice modules. Only after they have completed all internal and sensory components, may they begin to plate the construct. While most automatons are made in descendant shape and likeness, it is possible for automatons to be made to imitate larger things. That being said, anything larger than a regular descendant, ranging from a halfling to an uruk, would suffer from various functional penalties. Because of their large size, they would require a stronger frame with more density focused on the legs and lower body; this weight would leave their movement limited to a consistent walking pace, with the automaton unable to go beyond this. In addition to slowed physical abilities, larger automatons would suffer from greatly delayed processing speed due to the vastness of their size, making them excessively lethargic and more simplistic in thought, requiring them to be constantly directed by another individual for most tasks - never able to perform terribly complex feats like their smaller cousins. Overclocking When in need of further strength and speed, an Automaton may enter a state equivalent to an adrenaline rush known as ‘Overclocking’ over the course of [2] emotes, wherein they greatly increase the speed and force with which Lifeblood flows through their bodies. By overclocking, one’s gearheart churns irregularly and swiftly, and due to the nature of clockwork things, such can cause internal damage, be it through gears breaking off, vessels snapping, or leakage. This implies that if one decides to keep an Overclock stage, they will surely die given enough time. However, if one were to augment themselves by a small amount, and do it for a short amount of time, they would suffer weakness, this depending on what kind of Overclock. There are two types of Overclock which an Automaton may enter; On Gear Hearts & Vital Function The Heart, also known as the “Gear Heart” or “Clock Heart” is a heart-shaped device composed of various springs and cogs. Within it, the cogs are infused with redstone (which gives it its various nicknames, as though it was made by a clockmaker), and a precious gem or stone (either Diamond or Graphite) of some value is placed in the center. In addition, various pathways are to be accommodated for the tubing on the frame. The cogs and gem seem to generate some sort of energy that will jumpstart the fluids and give life to the construct. This is done via using springs to make the cogs churn, which creates the energy that is then aided by the redstone -- as well as the stone -- and transferred to the fluids. What is most interesting is that the heart seems to beat because of its inner workings, much like a living being, sustaining the automaton in winding clockwork - serving as the necessary lynchpin component of all clockworks. If an automaton were to ‘bleed out’ and lose all of its lifeblood, its Gear Heart would fall inert - soft-shelving the Automaton until such a time that its chassis is recovered, repaired, and new lifeblood is introduced; though as a result of the trauma, it would forget the means and cause of its death, in line with normal death rules. However, should the heart be damaged, crucial aspects of the Automaton’s memory and personality would be lost unless the heart was repaired with proper care, with the personality and memories effectively ‘killed off’ should the heart be destroyed entirely without the possibility of recovery. Crafting & Innovation Prosthetics Miscellaneous Inventions Servants & Pets [CA] Machine Spirits "What... have I become?" Much like the end of the Clockmaker's tale, those who craft can also become. The tragedy of the poor Clockmaker was falling in love with the Machine God’s creation and then wanting to become something like it. He worked to make a suitable body for himself, and when his work gave him life as the machine, the Reever had already left the plane. Maddened and heartbroken, the soul bearing animii wandered the realm with a heavy conscience. Through the use of methods similar to kloning, as well as some ideas from golemancy. The craftsmen must craft the inside layer of the heart out of mage gold or standard gold, and then adding roughly a hundred milliliters of blood to an aetheric Lifeblood solution, and a certain amount of reagents to represent the person to each fluid, it can act as an identifier for the soul. When the craftsman or convert dies, they find that their soul skips the stream, hopping back into the plane in the form of the Automaton. The body is less sensitive, and for the first few years, the coil is surreal, which requires for the person to get used to it, and the body must initially be made in the same design as the creator, with a foot to a few feet difference being feasible. If a voidal mage was to become the Animii, the frame and body would weaken, becoming as physically weak as the mage was in its fleshy life, and their coverings become embrittled, enduring [1] less strike than a conventional Automaton would be capable of. It is here, that if the Automaton was to die, it will be a true death, but to circumvent this, the machine creates more of itself, useless husks that will act as bodies when the construct is destroyed. While blood might not be possible, the use of their main fluids can replace the need, though reagents are still required. Now, to keep themselves alive, the construct must make more and more, sometimes keeping large shacks or underground facilities with these constructs. If they were to be destroyed, it would mark the end of the being. Tier Progression, Purpose & Citations Animii crafting has no set tiers, merely requiring that all lessons and facets of the feat be known in order to apply for a [TA] in the feat. Citation Valannor & Pundimonium - Writing BobBox, Unbaed, ShadyTales, Heathman, Keefy, Sybbyl, and Tentoa - Inspiration, feedback and criticism, ideas, providing us the will to live to work on this rewrite, & general help The purpose of this rewrite was strictly to rewrite Animatii into a more clarified and modernized state, as the prior rewrite was heavily outdated and prone to abuse or its limits being stretched heavily to perform functions it outright shouldn’t have been able to. As for the purpose of Animii itself, I believe its previous writer, TaiwanNotChina, said it best. “This lore has been designed for both players who lean towards nonmagical roleplay as a means to progress, as well as provide nonmagical lore. While we have a slew of magical things, we don’t have too many interesting lores for mundane players to use and interact with. Made for the craft-inclined, this piece serves to make automata plausible with a strong sense of fantasy behind it. Before anyone argues “N-no! Muh techlock!” Then play TES and look at the Dwarven Automatons, legit steam constructs. “

Dragon Dreaming - Virolah, Non-Combative Smoke Horror - Zil Kresh for fire, to the point of the given example in lore being creating shapes of dragons to compliment Azdromoth Bone Dance - Necromancy Branding Alchemy shouldn't be used to just do magic but [better/cheaper], and should be unique and befitting the theme of alchemy. 🤷‍♂️

Half of this is already done by Heraldry, and in a far more engaging manner. The greed one is somewhat interesting, but then it's a nose dive with giving alchemy the capability to magically reanimate skeletons like Necromancers. Interesting in concept, but it suffers from the same issue a lot of alch pieces have where they try and do magic (but better/cheaper).

[!] An artist’s rendition of the Ebrietæs, and the sea of suffering which it comprises. The truth is not always a clement thing - and some truths should be left well enough alone. Through space and time, the Barrowlord Atzudeth flung itself into the infinite beyond through ritual sacrament - an intentional jaunt, crafted with far more care than its initial venture. There were laws to reality that It knew of. Fundamentals which governed how one viewed the world, the lens through which one experienced reality itself and allowed a mortal mind to grapple with their existence. From the waters of one world to the next It travelled, shrouded only in the thin veneer of consecration wrought through salt and ritual to act as bulwark from encroaching evils from beyond the Veil. A darkened cavern faded to the brief perception of the vast and unchecked cosmos, a tunnel bored through the stars to deposit It where it so deigned to travel; and perhaps, success was truly the worst outcome of its gamble. A defining goal, best left unachieved. Where the Empyrean now resided was not a realm of sight, nor smell or touch, for such concepts scarcely existed - could exist - within this space. This was the vast Ebrietæs, and immediately that nascent Barrowlord was drowned in an ocean of suffering and torment, memories and experiences which invaded its amalgam consciousnesses; and in the blink of an eye it experienced a thousand mortal lifetimes, Its will nearly crushed by the weight of anguish and the burdens of the damned. The stain of blood upon the blade of an ‘aheral’s kinslaying, dark maledictions wrought in service of the occult which never cared for a dwarven life, the tortured existence of a sinner who sold his companion’s souls for the vain hope of seeing another day. So many stories, so many lives, consigned to perdition for reasons the Barrowlord could hardly stand to justify nor fathom. It buckled, its pure-white form stained murky gray with the stains of the grasping hands which clung to the foreign soul for succor or consumption; years could have passed, centuries, and It would not have known. An empyreal tide crashing upon itself, an ocean of souls in torment all trapped in their own suffering by mechanisms ordained through the Mongoose’s hand - and whatever the Empyrean had expected, it was anything but this. ‘Sound,’ if it truly was such, took only the place of deafening cacophonies of wails and shrieks of untold pain and agony, the pitiful moans of sobbing widows and the angered howls of the unrepentant damned all coalescing into a drone of haunting, macabre beauty. Lashing tendrils of its own occult power would escape the Lord’s spirit, spurred on by the anguish of those which clung to it, and it broke to the surface of the Wastes - or whatever such could be construed as, for ‘space’ was a relative ideal in the plane of lost souls, a notion which could change at the whim of faux tides. Vast forms of ebony loomed over all, in the far distance. Hundreds of scarlet eyes permeated their forms, and the Empyrean watched as they strove against one another in battle of the spirit - a far cry from the duels of blade and claw in a mortal realm, but the very will of their immortal souls, the songs of a discordant melody which sought to break one another in a fruitless battle of wit and raw power. The ‘sky’ here bore no stars, no light, no love, providing a murky gray contrast of apathy and contempt to all that lingered below. The dead fell into their forms, and never did they emerge in the wake of these great monoliths and exemplars of the Ebrietæs’ curse; simple creatures, yet a crucial part of this horrific ecosystem. And cursed, indeed, was what this realm was. There was no love to be found here, far beyond the scathing warmth of a golden sun. There was no wisdom, nor compassion, in the entrapment of the dead in their own agonies and personal hells which mingled with the others, forming a vast breadth of writhing and seizing waves of psychic torture for all caught within. For all that the world knew of the Ebrietæs, and thought of it, what this was… Was so much worse than any could have e’er imagined. And then, Atzudeth saw it. Impossibly far in the distance, yet still grandiose and leviathan in scale, It bore witness to a vortex of shimmering candescence and shadow alike - a dim light of silver and gold, the center around which all revolved. An impossibly beautiful thing, which cast its light far beyond its borders, yet never gracing the wretched souls consigned to wander these wastes ad infinitum; dazzling, enchanting, seraphic, all of these things and more witnessed in the rawest form by a mortal soul. The promise of paradise to those deemed worthy, a stream and road where all things end and are born anew. A kiss of moonlight upon the infinite sea, yet cold and unforgiving, scornful as the embers of a fire which has long since faded. It stared, it witnessed, and it pined for a great length of time - enraptured and transfixed upon the light, before it tore its gaze away. Atzudeth wept, even as it departed from this realm. It had seen what it had come to see - a vast sea of potential, left in disrepair to rot in its own sin. It wept for what could have been, what had been lost, and what was. It wept and sobbed for the thousands of lives which it had witnessed in the briefest turn of the sundial, their sins and virtues laid bare - and Atzudeth’s own witnessed in turn. Its will was fractured, weakened, yet strengthened all the same. But the Barrowlord was changed by this experience. And never, not in the rest of its purgatory, would it be able to forget this tragedy.

"Ad Mortem Inimicus!" Cried a leal Wyrmstalker, delighting in a recently completed raid on the dark queendom...

A Keeper of Xan would grin, raising her lance as the news circulated throughout the realm; "ORDO VULT!"

AN OPEN LETTER IN SUPPORT OF THE HOLY LECTORATE For many years, the Order of the Golden Lion has worked in concert with our allies within the Holy Lectorate in opposition to the Dark; and the matter of Serheim is no exception. This stain has roosted itself within the ruins of the fallen Ando Alur, named in honor of the first such settlement which wrought the Voidal Calamity upon Almaris. Within this hive of villainy and evil, many have met their end, and within the bowels of the fortress lay a freezer stocked full with dozens upon dozens of corpses, of man, woman, and child alike. We have stood stalwart against this foe within the East, primarily occupied with the scourging of the threat within the Urguani and Nevaehlii realm, as skeletons walk the earth and maraud passer-bys in aims to feast upon their flesh and blood. We have taken the blade to their fel lords and slaughtered them upon the cobbles, and to the Realm of Men we say this; This monstrous foe can be felled, even by mundane blades. It can be beaten. In lockstep with our allies of the Owynist flock, we offer our aid in every capacity to the endeavor of scouring this blight from the realm, as we had during the Inquisition upon the Azdrazi earlier this century. There will be no respite for the Vampire, nor the Dragon or the Werbeast. Let their carcasses burn upon blessed pyres, their stench scoured from this realm for all eternity. They congregate as an army in a great Black Crusade; let it be broken by the will of man, dwarf, and any who would live upon an earth free of their black sacraments and ritual sacrifices. They must be driven back to the unhallowed pits from whence they came, and the undying must be sealed away until even the stars themselves would die. We have fought this foe for the long few years it has been revealed to us, and would delight in doing so alongside the hallowed blades of the Holy Lectorate, and the progeny of Horen who would stand alongside them. Our blades are yours to direct, and our shields yours to join in the great bulwark against this gnawing terror. Ser Uther of Acre may call upon us at any time he so wishes, alongside the honorable Arch-Lector and his cohort. SEREMVS * DELENDA * EST

[!] A depiction of the Besieged Realm, during an infernal assault upon one of the central cities. [!] The events detailed hereon out are not common knowledge, known only to the Barrowlord of the Empyrean, serving to document its journey through a far flung realm. War. That is what Atzudeth awoke to, when It had recovered from being hurled through space, and through time. Its husked form crashed against the soliloquy of a thousand cannons roaring, into the dirt and mud and blood as the howls of aberrant beasts assaulted its dulled senses - memories kindled of the . Its masked face arose, and it was met with all the carnage and viscera that the maddened fantasies of some sick delinquent could muster, devil hordes crashing against a shield wall of mortal men, titanic beasts held back through the drumroll of artillery battering their scarlet forms, cannon shells burning craters through muscle and sinew until hearts were rent asunder. In the midst of the violence, that unhallowed script would be stowed within the Barrowlord’s armor, and it hauled itself to its feet with the aid of its staff, caught between the armies of men and the hordes of some infernal shore. Hushed words and invocation of spectral power would cause It to vanish from sight, and it walked among the battlefield as a specter of foreign realms; souls dwelt upon the field, mere morsels to satisfy the desire for bloodshed, stamped out beneath cloven feet. Atzudeth lent what aid it could, without revealing its presence. Murmurs of advice and warning when most required, a trick of the light to draw the attention of the fiends from the wounded. Soon, it departed from the frontline, as the stars wheeled overhead and a vermillion dawn soon rose, blanketing the land in that tepid radiance. It walked, trudging through the barren plains for what felt like hours until it came upon the walls of a settlement- a city, ringed and fortified, with numerous ballistae and cannon emplacements lining the parapets. To evade the gate watch was a simple task, the embrace of the ethereal carrying it through the crowds and with little incident, and what It found within was a stark contrast to the horrors that lay upon the blood-drenched soil. Though little, hope was kindled in this place; the market stalls were replete with all sorts of odd goods and flora, children and womenfolk of all sorts wandered the streets with a dampened candor. The city seemed a bastion, far from the din and ken of the battlegrounds where devils laughed and good men died. The winding streets were explored with laxity, and clad in the shroud of ectoplasm to shield it from sight, the Empyrean would soon find itself before a church, erected in the name of some unknown pagan god. The tongue and script of this realm was unfamiliar, yet strangely elegant nonetheless, with written words being fashioned of harsh angles and fine curves to form an alphabet the Barrowlord could seldom fathom. Days could have passed, months, years, and the Lord would not have known. Time fled as a concept, trapped in the macabre wonder in this world forged by war, and it found itself within a vast graveyard, as large as a field. Headstones and crypts littered the verdant, well-kept soil in the thousands, yet one stood taller than the rest; a vast spire, a dozen feet high, wrought then of finest marble. Atzudeth approached, and soon, it found itself as a supplicant before the monolith, the depiction of a stoic man carved deeply into the rock, alongside a litany of scrawlings and obituaries. The script of this land eluded it still, but the Lord understood the grave nonetheless; the first man to fall, from this city, in the eternal war which it waged for its very right to exist. Its hand lofted, placing itself against the rock, and it bowed its forehead against the marble - and in lowest of tones, it sung. Oceanic arias filled the yard in mournful sorrow, as that Empyreal lord sang for a life that could have been, and the love lost in the malefic flames of the hell which was loosed upon this realm. When it next lifted its gaze, however, it found itself back home. Away from that grave of a noble soul. Static lingered in the air which was so soon to fade, as the Lord dwelt upon that which lingered in the cosmos beyond.

What is your name, hero-to-be? Alatariel Athna What is your age? 2 Centuries of Age What is your race? Mali Where do you reside? The Seeker's Ark What powers do you have to fight against this great evil? The unfettered wrath of the Lord of Sunlight What is the meaning of a free-spirit, in short words? One unshackled by misery nor toil nor unjust authority, given the ability to pursue life and enjoy it to the fullest extent.

This lore really rocks

the plagiarism train begins anew

[!] This is a lore-compliant Prophecy, and as such only users with accepted Mysticism, Vivification, Farseer, Naztherak, or Seer applications may bear witness to it. One’s vision would be overcome with a vision - a cavern, far beneath the dirt and deprived of light and love. A door would be seen, a faint outline traced into the wall, shining in reflected moonlight refracted through hundreds of crystals. The door opened - and entombed within Light would be seen a great King of Crimson; lashes of solar power coiling about its extremities, drawing it into the vortex of Silver, leaving only its skull to remain exposed. The maw of that ancient, untamed evil spake henceforth; a rattle of bones and choir of the dead forming harrowing words of malcontent. “Cold be this hand, this heart, this bone, Cold is this eternal slumber in rock and stone, Far beyond the realm of Horen’s birth, Trapped and entombed within cradle of the earth. Eternity here, I shalt lie, Until even stars and gods would come to die. Essence of flame, purest in form, shall be mine unsealing; Set this dark crown free - to continue the Weaving.” It would be by the will of fate alone that this malefic thing would find release - or be forgotten to the aeons, never to be loosed upon the world again.

[!] The following is not common knowledge in roleplay, and known only to the Fifth Synod and those present at the events detailed herein. Within the depths of a sullen trench within the Tomblands, a titanic quake was heard. Stone was rent asunder, formerly tall and proud. A throne, broken. Before a bedamned host, a flaming Lord would fall and kneel - begging the forgiveness of those they had wronged in their iron-fisted tyranny. A crown, broken. A host of loyal spirits, bound in servitude, would be met by an empyreal lord. Chain and collar fell to the floor, the locks shattered and servitude lifted. The chains, broken. A Herald of Flame returned, and in his wake followed the promise of ancient lore once left buried - to be preached and scribed anew. Ignorance, broken. What befell the Fifth Synod of the Occult was a grandiose rebirth; the failures of yester-year buried in a grave, the shackles of slavery rent asunder. The Second Founding of the Fifth Synod was at hand; and in this, it would either perish as all before it had, or manifest the destiny so long foretold by the ancients.

An industry Tycoon prepares to dump many vats of red oil waste into the local water supply and natural reserves.

Very proud of some unique and original culture lore. Based as ****.

[!] The following letter would be written in address of that deathly Vicar of Xion - the parchment carrying a mote of warmth and charity, cold and scornful to those who dwelt beyond the light of the Heavens. In address to the Vicar, I found myself somewhat excited by the prospect of your letter, given the intellectual debate it seemed to promise - and yet, I find myself wanting, for what has been delivered is naught but inanity posing as enlightenment. The tongue of the ignorant, professing to understand that which long has been lost to it, scorned by the Light for the primordial sins which it has enacted upon the realm. The stench of hypocrisy woven into every stain of ink upon parchment, in aims to thwart a foe and cause you have twisted and profaned all your own. Many of you hold fast to the belief that your works are done with a righteous mind, that the hordes of foreign demons and despots should have no foothold in the world of men. Yet you do so under the delusion of words woven by an intricate mouth of gilded lies, for while you assert the influence of fell gods should be removed, you seek to replace it with a seething light of the same covetous nature. This has led many good men, who in darkness covet the light, to be waylaid by seemingly noble allure, for they do not know the true ambitions of those they serve. It is curious that you, an adherent to the primeval ways of Xion, would rebuke our mission. Is it not spoken of in the blackened texts of your Lords that it was Iblees who enacted the First Sins, and transgressed upon the mortal realm in errantry? Is it not decreed that the influence of Ruin, insidious and conniving, is to be challenged at every turn by your folk? It is the mission of the Morninglord that all fel influence be eradicated from the realm, be they god, mortal, or immortal. My blade falls the same upon your kind as it would the baleful Inferis scourge, the blackened tendrils of Ruin, or the bewitched Lykan. For were it not for the First Sin, and the war upon Aegis, the stain of the Betrayer would not have besmirched this realm’s splendor; all sin, and all vice, is born of It. Thus it is the mission of the Order to scour the whispers of Ruin from the hearts and minds of all, so that existence might return to those blessed days. You are correct - we wish to restore the Light, ineffable and impermeable, to the realm at large. You call it seething, covetous, scornful; the Light scorns you, for it is but a reflection of all that you have lost, and all that you could have been. I have seen, firsthand, the way in which these things of ‘virtue’ look upon man. We are mere playthings to them, puppets whose strings they seek to pull for a moment, only to select a favorite few as their chosen toys. I have watched men and women, saintly and virtuous all of them, denied entry to salvation because they did not adhere to the creeds laid out by your ‘gods’. And yet those who enter paradise do so simply as slaves bound in eternal service to the warmongering whims of the one they foolishly serves while they were still living. Does it not raise the question that death may be a means to gain the spirits of men as tokens for the gods to barter and wage? Why else would we be afflicted with the throes of martyrdom and death, only to be ushered off to the very seats of the same ones who permitted its touch to remain upon our souls? And yet you make yourselves vessels for its power, whilst claiming to act on behalf of man — it is sickening. And so too have I seen what awaits us all, should the Light prevail. Do not conflate the Lion for the Mongoose - the warden of the Soulstream, She who governs the fate which lay after our passing, for He holds dominion as sword and shield of the Maker, not as the gatekeeper of one’s eternal fate. You mistake the nature of the divine for malice and childishness; the divine are primordial, ineffable, their beings unknown by mortal or immortal. Who are we, to fathom the primal aspects of the Heavens? One can try, and one may even partially succeed, but the divines are wholly alien in thought and soul. Even I, who hath glimpsed the raw and all-encompassing radiance of the Lion’s Sapphire soul, cannot know His plan in any way that mortal or immortal minds could truly understand. They are to us as we are to insects, and a thousand magnitudes more. Can the ant comprehend the thoughts and whims of you and I, who’s worlds are wholly different from their own? That we might even know a mere fraction of their aims and truths is a miracle, and one which promises hope for a world to come, and a world that could be, if it were not for Ruin. The Lion’s aim is for the Descendants to be able to choose for themselves how they would live - and so too is such our duty, to protect the right of mortal man to choose at the expense of ourselves, for each and every blade amongst my ranks is martyred in the fires of Ruin’s sin. You speak of our charge being sickening; and I rebuke your deceit, your hypocrisy, as you sit upon your throne of manufactured benevolence and deceit. Is it not the Dark which must subsist upon unblemished mortalkind as parasites? You feast upon them, devouring body and soul, destroying realms and families, and you would claim to act on behalf of man?! That is truly sickening. Your deeds leave the work half-finished and worse-off, for in place of those banished powers you assert the might of yet another threat to mortal autonomy and prosperity. Darkness may have initiated the battle in the days of old, but the Light perpetuates it; for the darkness, man can look at, but it is the blinding light which drives his vision away, concealing what it truly is. Are we then to lay down our arms and offer no resistance as you would slaughter and bereave? Are we then to sit back and allow you to take our lives, corrupt and condemn all that lay untarnished by your corruption? You admit yourself that the Dark was the aggressor - and the Light is, above all, a reactionary force within this realm. We perpetuate the Great War through our survival, through dogged refusal to surrender as you would drink from the soul of man as victory wine from a chalice. The Darkness might be pleasant to look upon, as too are the whispers of betrayal, the saccharine delicacy of deceit and personal gain to the detriment of another. It lies. It promises. It hides. It steals. The Light shines brighter, an eclipsing radiance to shine over all else, but it does not need lies. It needs neither promises of grandeur nor immortal being. The Light is truthful, to those who might see past those lashing tendrils of solar power, the same power which courses through my very veins. The TRUTH is not always pleasant, Ashspawn. You of all individuals should know this. If you truly wish to expunge the foreign powers which hold sway over mortal men, then you must be willing to uphold that same vow even in your works and your deeds. Renounce your hollow servitude, however gilded it may be, and claim your seat among men so that together we might end the scourge upon us. Yet be prepared, zealots of Golden Sun; for soon I am to sweep across the land like the shadow of night, and when my work has come to fruition, there shall be no sunrise left to call upon. That you would propose we break our vows and turn our blades upon our charges is laughable - and it belies a darker truth, and shows plainly the insidious nature of your silvered tongue. You are the same as all of Xion are - and like them, you are in truth helpless to alter the course of fate, trapped by doctrines which serve only to harm and debilitate yourself. You have succumbed to weakness, and in desperation, scramble to find some manner of control over your bedamned fate. Know this, Vicar; Hear my words. My Order has long stood against your covens, and your fel idols. Long has it endured against every profane incantation, every blackened hex, every haunting curse. We have driven the Arch-Drakaar to flight in terror of the rising light, and made known our truth; Bring your shadows, bring your darkness, it shall make no difference. We are inevitable. Like the future itself - unyielding, to march forevermore thereon. It moves forward as we always move. Every second an earthquake. Every heartbeat a thunderclap. Lift your heads, and bear witness to the most glorious of truths; None can battle the DAWN we herald. Not even Ruin can halt the rising of the SUN.

You need to go get some wood bro... Frfr

[!] A survivor surveys the carnage that befell the occupied ruins of Ando Alur, shortly after the battle between the amassed forces of Light and Dark. [!] Do not metagame the contents of this post if you were not present at the battle. One mistake. That was all it took for the Order of the Golden Lion to be alerted to the plots of ‘The Queendom,’ a cabal of Darkspawn assembled to discuss the ruination of the East, and an attempt to decapitate the Order while it was without a fortress or hold to speak of. Swiftly was a force amassed by the Keeper Alatáriel, few in number and hastily rallied in an attempt to strike a crippling blow before the forces of Ruin could bring their full strength to bear. The Commander Aer’dir, Custodian Valdor, Vallein Vuln’miruel, Sergei Harold, Feanor Sylvaeri, and Vanessa Silverhand would accompany the gilded Elfess to the ruined husk of a once-proud city - Ando Alur, in its second incarnation, burned and scorched upon the shores of Urguani soil. They were followed by Durin Hammerforge and Meylis Frostbeard, the former sat astride his trusty war-donkey, both unprepared for the battle to come. As they arrived, they heard shouts and the scurrying of aberrants within - and soon over the walls crested archers, and the Barrowlord of the Fifth Synod, Astark - The Flaming Wight. Words were bandied and exchanged, arrows traded as hostilities commenced, and the battle had begun. The Golden Lion would use their cavalry to great effect, a swift retreat delivering them from the talons of a force superior in number and strength, replete with voidal magi, vicious werwulves, and hags of frost to hurl mighty spells from the crumbling battlements. The Barrowlord would take the fray, leading the charge of her compatriots in pursuit of the Order - and so would be proven her undoing, as from the desiccated woodland would pounce the Keeper Alatáriel, decimating the Barrowlord’s vessel with a lance of sapphire lightning alongside a mighty execution of the Long Arm wielded by Feanor Sylvaeri; the combined assault felling the Barrowlord in a single blow. Arrowfire would strip the Keeper of vital armors in retaliation, clipping her neck and forcing her to withdraw. A brutal melee would be had between Valdor, Vanessa, and the Barrowlord’s honor guard - the wicked Yathnz, and a mysterious vampiress. The werwulves would topple trees with their mighty bulk, crushing steeds below the arbor as arrows would dispatch horse after horse, the pace kept equal between the severely outnumbered Order, and the forces of Xion. A viper lay in wait, a bald individual slinging potions from the flanks would debilitate mighty Durin and slay his precious donkey, while the Custodian Valdor would be prevented from undoing the vampiress by a gust of wind cast by voidal magi. Werwulves pursued clever Vallein, harrying him through the trees even whilst under fire by Feanor’s mighty hammer of dawn. Abyssal fog crept across the battlefield as Vanessa’s arbalest bolt met the scion of the Lykans, until at last, all was brought to a close by the wrath of Agnes, a witch of frost, greatly renowned amongst her peers; for with sorcery unbound she would summon forth a blizzard in the blighted lands to allow her compatriots retreat and respite from the onslaught of the Golden Lion’s forces. The battle had drawn to a close, with but one true casualty; for with a banshee’s wail, the Barrowlord Astark would be dispatched to the Ebrietaes from whence she came. In most respects, a grizzled draw, but in spirit it would be declared a grand victory by the Order of the Golden Lion. A battle well-fought, a portent of things to come -- a war, a crusade, of Light and Dark.

An Amalgamation of wailing souls in torment weeps as its dwarven numbers glimpse the missive - bemoaning the true death of Clan Grimgold on this day.